


The Hardest Thing

by imperator_kahlo



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Child Abandonment, Depression, Eventual Smut, F/M, Mage Inquisitor (Dragon Age), Mental Health Issues, Pining, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Thedas is big, and the Inquisitor can delegate, background Adoribull (eventually), magical self-harm, mostly - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-21
Updated: 2018-11-21
Packaged: 2019-08-26 22:22:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16690030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imperator_kahlo/pseuds/imperator_kahlo
Summary: When the Ostwick Circle fell, Alena Trevelyan found a kind of peace as a scout for a small camp of mages in the Free Marches. Dressed as a merchant and with her staff abandoned, she could forget herself in service and solitude. Until she visits the Divine's Conclave, and finds herself - and her magic - and the centre of chaos.





	1. All fall down

Cullen Rutherford was unmoored.

Without lyrium, everything was more chaotic. His thoughts were undisciplined and wild. The world around him was jagged and unreal. His nightmares, the constant companions of his adult life, had reached a pitch and intensity that had him fearing his own bed. He had taken to working long into the night, developing a voluminous archive of strategies and counterstrategies that depended on forces he did not and may never have, and poring over the intelligence reports gathered by Sister Nightingale. He woke that dawn as he did every dawn, in sweat-soaked, twisted sheets, and allowed himself a single moment of piercing longing for lyrium. It had been three months since Cassandra Pentaghast had recruited him for the yet-unannounced Inquisition, and since he had vowed to cut all ties to his former life as a Templar, especially his lyrium leash. Three months, and every morning harder to face than the one before.

Perhaps today would mark a turning point. Perhaps today the Divine’s Conclave would be a success, and bring an end to the war his twisted devotion had helped spark. Perhaps, with peace, he would heal.

Later that morning, as Cullen conferred with his second on the steps to Haven’s gate, an enormous rush of air knocked both men off their feet. A split second later, a distant boom gave way to a grinding shriek that set Cullen’s teeth on edge, and as he lay on his back in the snow he saw the clear blue sky rent asunder.

***

In the chaotic three days that followed the explosion at the Conclave, Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast killed twenty-eight demons and destroyed over a dozen practice dummies. She spent so many of the daylight hours channeling her impotent rage into brutal shield bashes and murderous swings of her sword that she found herself fighting even in her dreams, slashing at demons and wraiths, more than once waking herself as her sword arm shot out and landed a painful hit on the chest by her bedroll.

Between skirmishes, she paced the infirmary where her prime suspect lay unconscious, haranguing Solas about the mark on the woman’s hand, convinced the elven apostate knew more than he was letting on about the link between the growing mark and the growing breach in the sky. His vague theory that the mark could be used to seal the Breach—and the proliferation of smaller rifts in the Veil that had appeared in its wake—was profoundly unsatisfying. As she paced by the window, the sickly green light of the Breach swirled above the campfires and candles of Haven, nibbling at the surrounding darkness, growing bigger by the minute. The Seeker raged and railed but the elf remained frustratingly calm in the face of her fury, his bald head tilted over the woman’s outstretched hand, eyes narrowed slightly as he studied the mark. Sometimes when she arrived he was already asleep at the desk, head resting next to the stack of notes he made after his dream journeys through the Fade in search of answers. On the first occasion, Cassandra had reached for a page, letting it fall back to the table with a disgusted grunt as she saw it was written entirely in ancient Elven.

The bearded apothecary, Adan, serving as reluctant healer in the absence of anyone more qualified, strode between the woman’s bed and those of the ever-changing collection of soldiers and villagers suffering from demon scratches and burns. He was irritated by the constant flow of traffic through the infirmary, and radiated disapproval at Solas’ apparent decision to remain at the unconscious mage’s side until she woke.

The young woman showed few signs of improvement over those three days. She simply lay there, dark brown hair falling out of a messy braid, clothing singed, a few abrasions on her right cheek and chin. An old scar traced a jagged line from her hairline across her left eye to her cheekbone, but no recent wounds existed to explain the persistent coma. Cassandra longed to grab her shoulders and shake her forcefully awake, to keep the mage at the tip of her sword until she confessed to the explosion that had murdered Divine Justinia and shattered any possibility of peace.

Only Leliana’s presence kept Cassandra’s rage from spilling over entirely. Both had served the Divine since her ascension to the Sunburst throne: Cassandra as Right Hand of the Divine and the red-haired rogue as Left. Where the Nevarran Seeker took forceful and direct action on the Divine’s behalf, Leliana’s role was more subtle. She had trained as a bard in Orlais, a nation famed for its cutthroat politics and love of intrigue, and was an accomplished minstrel and spy, an inveterate player of the Game. Her methods were cool, considered, and ruthless. The Left Hand was the Divine’s spymaster.

Years of working together had made the two women close, if not always friendly; both had greatly admired their superior, but Leliana had been particularly close to Justinia. Cassandra refused to fly completely off the handle while her grieving colleague remained so composed. Besides, the information the spymaster had managed to gather in the days following the disaster gave the Seeker plenty of targets to focus her rage upon besides the mage. The reports were confused and vague, but it seemed rifts were opening across southern Thedas, spilling demons across a region already wracked by the mage-templar conflict and the rumblings of insurrection in Orlais. Cassandra’s impotence in the face of this disaster was infuriating.

***

“You know what we must do,” the Seeker slammed a thick tome onto the table she and Leliana stood over in the back room of Haven’s Chantry. “It was the Divine’s will, should the Conclave fail to bring peace.”

“I’m not certain our current situation is exactly what she had in mind when she contemplated failure.”

Cassandra slammed a fist against the table. “It is far worse. There is no doubt in my mind—”

“I do agree, Cassandra. The Divine would decree the founding of a new Inquisition were she alive to face this disaster. But it is too soon.”

“Too soon? Too _soon_? Demons stalk across the landscape and it’s too _soon_ to take action?”

Leliana placed her hand on the book’s leather cover, embossed with an eye and sword. “Cassandra, we _are_ taking action, as best we can at this moment. I simply advise we wait to declare the Inquisition. The Chantry, disunited and shocked as it is, is unlikely to approve. We cannot give our enemies any hint of what we intend.” Cassandra growled impatiently, but Leliana continued. “For now, we gather information. As soon as we need the Inquisition, we declare it.”

“Very well.” Cassandra’s assent was grudging.

There was a knock at the door, and at Cassandra’s invitation a harried elven servant appeared. “My ladies, Adan sends word. The mage stirs.” The two women glanced at each other, and hurried out of the room, Cassandra’s face a storm.

***

The Seeker flung open the door to the infirmary, her hand on the pommel of her sword. Adan straightened, lips thin with disapproval, before turning and conspicuously tending to the injured soldier a few feet away: a request for silence far too subtle for the furious Seeker. Solas, too, had risen and while he did not flinch at Cassandra’s ire, he wisely held his tongue.

The woman in the bed sat up straighter, meeting Cassandra’s gaze with cool blue eyes. A double line of tattooed black dashes followed the lower curve of her scarred left eye before flicking up in two graceful lines to meet her eyebrow. With her bright eyes open, the combined effect was quite extraordinary, Leliana thought. As was her composure, for when Cassandra drew her sword and pointed it at the prisoner’s throat, the mage merely raised her chin a little, eyes not flickering from Cassandra’s. The mask was imperfect, though, and Leliana had an eye for detail: by her side, above the sheets, she was scratching at the soft skin below her right thumb with the nail of her index finger.

“Tell me why we shouldn’t kill you now,” Cassandra demanded. “The Conclave is destroyed; everyone who attended is dead. Except for you.” She took a step closer to the bed, and as the blade drew nearer Alena finally dropped her eyes to it.

The mage’s right hand tightened, fingernail now pressing deep into the nail bed of her thumb. She remained silent. The Seeker sheathed her sword and crossed the remaining space between her and the bed in a stride, elbowing Solas out of the way and grabbing his patient’s left hand. “Explain this,” she hissed and the mark sparked, biting into the skin. The woman flinched at a sudden flash of pain.

“I can’t.”

“What do you mean you can’t?” Cassandra’s hand tightened.

“I don’t know what that is, or how it got there.”

“You’re lying.” Cassandra dropped the woman’s wrist, glowering down at her. Leliana took the opportunity to interject, pulling the Seeker away. “We need her, Cassandra.”

The mage had curled a fist around the mark and drawn the hand to her stomach. “You need me?”

Solas took a step forward. “Whatever magic opened that tear in the sky also placed that mark on your hand. I theorise the mark might be able to close the rifts that open in the Breach’s wake.”

“And perhaps the Breach itself. But we must test this theory,” Cassandra stepped forward again, her temper easing. “Return to the forward camp, Leliana. Solas and I will take her to the rift. If his theory works, we shall meet you at camp.”

The mage swung her legs out of bed, her cool expression belief by a brief but cautious glance at the Seeker’s sheathed sword. “I don’t understand. What are these rifts? The Breach?”

“It… will be easier to show you.” Cassandra propelled the weakened mage towards the door. When she stepped outside, her mark flared as the Breach tore away a little more of the sky. It was as though somebody had shoved a hot poker through her palm and all the way up her arm to the shoulder. She screamed and fell to her knees, hugging her left arm to herself, staring up at an enormous window into the world of demons.

 ***

Alena Trevelyan closed four rifts in the Veil on that long day of blood and ice and fire. With Solas, Cassandra, and the dwarven rogue Varric she trudged through the valley, calling upon what mana she could find in her weakened body to help fend off the waves of demons falling out of tears in the very fabric of reality. They sidestepped the dead and skirted burning farmhouses; every time the breach in the sky grew, Alena’s hand flared and she cried out with the pain. She fell into the snow many times, her light woollen breeches growing heavy with moisture. Each time, Cassandra picked her up, none too gently but absent her earlier fury, and they continued their push.

Finally, as the afternoon began to lengthen into evening, they climbed down a long steep path to the temple. The breach was directly above them now, the clouds at its edge stained by the competing green and orange lights of the Breach and the setting sun. A long flickering pillar of green light hung from the sky, pointing down into the ruins. The ruins themselves were a terrible sight: the stone of the temple had melted and warped, and what once had been walls now looked like a mess of enormous black stalagmites rearing up from the ruined ground. Burned corpses littered the temple and its surrounds, blackened skin pulling back from teeth in a final grimace. They had surely died quickly, for which Alena sent a silent prayer of thanks to the Maker. She did not look for the distinctive Formari-wrought rings worn by her companions from the Ostwick Circle: they were here, and dead, she knew. The sight of their bodies would only fuel her nightmares.

Around the temple were bulging masses of scarlet, radiating warmth and red light. When Alena approached one, it seemed to hum, tugging at a half-forgotten song in her mind.

“It’s evil. Don’t touch it!” Varric warned, just as she began to raise a hand.

Alena turned back to him, and the song ceased. “You’ve seen this before?”

“Red lyrium,” the dwarf said. He looked distressed. “You recognize it, Seeker?”

“Yes,” Cassandra said curtly, and led them into the temple before Alena could ask more.

Inside there was more red lyrium and yet another rift, a shifting mass of dense emerald spears of light, drawing on the magic drifting down to it from the Breach. Solas believed it to be the key—if Alena could only close this rift, the first and biggest, the Breach too would close. And so she pushed down the pain and pulled on a mask of composure and stoked her mana and sent fire—weak, sputtering fire—flying at the fifteen-foot tall Pride demon that strode out of the Fade to meet them.

Later, as she poured the last of her energy into the closure of the rift she felt her knees weaken and eyes close. When she woke, she was in a small room with soft blankets and the sweet-sharp smell of elfroot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been tinkering at this off and on for two years, and I think I need to post if I ever want to finish. I have it about 80% written, and I'm determined to see it through, but the posting may wax and wane as I fill in gaps and try to flesh out some of the inner circle.
> 
> The main story is more or less canon-compliant, but the major subplot follows Alena's mental health struggles, made manifest by demons who crave the power of the Anchor. Also, romance! But like, real angsty. As Alena will comment many chapters from now, their jagged edges are perfectly lined up with one another's soft spots.
> 
> (There's less direct dialogue from the game once I get my sea legs).


	2. For I stood up

In the absence of peace Cullen could, perhaps, settle for purpose. _Would_ settle for purpose, for there was no other choice for him now. This Alena had not closed the breach, but she had left it dormant, and whispers around Haven called her the Herald of Andraste. It was tempting to believe: that Andraste, the Maker even, had sent someone equipped with the means to address this sudden threat. That on the same day the sky was torn, He sent someone to heal it.

Cullen wanted desperately to believe. Clarity of belief and purpose had been the guiding light of his time with the Templars—a gift, in part, of the lyrium, but also of the Order itself. His purpose now was clear—seal this Maker-forsaken rift and save as many lives as possible—but his belief was by the events of Kirkwall and the memory of Kinloch Hold. The Maker’s mercy felt distant and improbable.

That this woman, this Herald, should be the one to save them all seemed equally improbable. In the wake of the explosion at the Conclave, Cullen had spent most of his time at the forward camp, midway between Haven and the Temple of Sacred Ashes, leading the few warriors that remained against the waves of demons. After that furious day in which Alena woke, closed four rifts and stabilised the Breach before lapsing into unconsciousness again, he found himself with time to breathe, and stopped by the infirmary to confer with Cassandra and cast a curious eye over the mage who had saved them all. She was a tall woman dressed in the dirty clothing of a merchant, some twenty-five or twenty-six years old with dark curls falling out of a long braid. Her long face was rather plain, with a light smattering of freckles across her cheeks, and marred by a scar that cut across her tattooed left eye. Striking, he supposed idly, but it was the strange mark on her hand that held the attention of those in the room. Even calm as it now was, it cast a flickering green light over the faces of those assembled. The tug of its unfamiliar magic itched at Cullen. Alena had closed several rifts, yes, and calmed the breach, yes, but so much remained to do and to understand. Solas declared to those assembled that her mark must be powered up to close the breach, and Cullen felt his throat closing over at the very thought.

Things had gone so catastrophically wrong.

***

Alena’s cautious inspection of her hand suggested the mark had calmed somewhat. It hummed at her, nuzzling instead of biting. She felt a tug of curiosity, longed for the Circle’s library with its towering shelves of arcane knowledge. She had never heard of anything remotely like either her newfound physical connection with the Fade or a large-scale rupture of the Veil separating that realm from reality, but perhaps some of the tomes from the Tevinter Imperium would hold a clue. After all, the ancient magisters of that country had come to know the Fade far more intimately than any before or since. Her blood ran cold. The Tevinter magisters had, indeed, managed to physically cross the Veil—by using the blood of thousands of slaves as a substitute for their own mana. Alena closed her marked hand in a tight fist, fingernails digging. So many had died at the temple. Could it have been some dark blood magic ritual? Her stomach roiled at the thought, her own well of quicksilver mana stirring in response to her fear. Fear of whatever, whoever had done this. Fear of the prison she was sure to be thrown into. Dread that perhaps she deserved it.

“The key to our salvation,” Solas had called the mark. Here, too, lay fear, less immediate: a deep uneasiness that there was more to come and the key would be one she was not suited to bear. She cast an eye to the window. The sky was clear and blue, but it was impossible to know if that was because the breach had been closed or the window merely faced away from it. She was climbing carefully out of bed—her body felt like one enormous bruise—when the door opened and an eleven servant entered. The woman started when she looked up from the tray she carried to see Alena awake.

“Oh! I didn’t know you were awake, I swear!”

“Don’t worry about it, I only—”

The elven woman felt to her knees, laying the tray roughly down on the floor. “I beg your forgiveness, and your blessing. I am but a humble servant. You are back in Haven, my lady. They say you saved us! The breach stopped growing, just like the mark on your hand. It’s all anyone can talk about.”

Alena looked at the green glow on her palm. Considered: not closed, but stopped growing. “So you’re saying… they’re happy with me?”

“I’m only saying what I heard, I didn’t mean anything by it,” the elf replied, climbing to her feet and backing toward the door. “I’m sure the Lady Cassandra would like to hear you’re awake. At once, she said…”

“Where is Cassandra?”

“At the Chantry. At once, she said.” And with that the servant had backed out of the room entirely. Alena sat on the bed for a moment, bemused. It had been a rather gentler awakening than the last, at least. She stood and glanced at the tray the servant had left behind. Bread, cheese, water. Her stomach growled at the sight: it had been days since her last meal. She carried the tray to a small table by the bed and tore off a piece of bread, wrapping it around a chunk of the crumbly, piquant cheese of the Fereldan hinterlands. In the few minutes it took her to devour the simple meal, she thought of nothing else.

When she finished, she brushed some crumbs off the simple linen tunic and hose she wore—her boots had been left by the door, but her own clothes were nowhere to be seen—and crossed to the mirror. Her long hair had mostly escaped its braid, dishevelled strands sticking up in all directions. She pulled out the tie and combed the thick waves back from her face with her fingers before weaving them back into a side-swept braid. That done, she placed a hand on either side of the mirror and leaned in, staring into her own eyes. “Don’t let them see,” she whispered to herself. She stared a few seconds longer, arranging her face into an expression of calm confidence, and left the room.

News of her awakening had travelled quickly, and when Alena stepped into the dirt streets of the village they were lined with soldiers, priests, and villagers. The soldiers held their right fists to their hearts, their heads bowed respectfully. The villagers and priests stared and whispered: “They said, when she came out of the Fade, Andraste herself was watching over her.” Alena almost turned and fled back to her room, slamming the door behind her. “Andraste herself blessed her.” Alena forced herself to walk forward, eyes fixed on the ground in front of her, pretending not to hear the whispers. But her skin was alive with them, and as she walked the short distance to the town’s Chantry she was four years old again, hugging the shadows of the Circle tower, utterly alone amongst the scores of apprentices, mages, and templars.

***

Cassandra and Leliana were in the Chantry’s back room in heated argument with Grand Chancellor Roderick. While priesthood was only open to human women, men filled many of the administrative roles within the Chantry, and Roderick was the most senior of those men. A proud and severe man of some forty-odd years, he considered himself the representative of the Chantry in Haven in the wake of the Divine’s death. When Alena entered the room, he pointed at the mage and addressed the two soldiers standing by the door. “Chain her! I want her prepared for travel to the capital for trial.”

“Disregard that and leave,” Cassandra said evenly. The soldiers nodded and left the room, the door clicking quietly shut behind them.

Roderick raised himself to his full height and straightened his shoulders, surprisingly broad underneath the white and red hooded robes of the Chantry. “I order you —”

“‘Order me?’ You are a glorified clerk,” the Seeker curled her lip.

“And you are thug! But a thug who supposedly serves the Chantry.”

Leliana took a step forward, eyes flashing beneath her own purple hood, chainmail tunic softly clinking. “We serve the Most Holy, Chancellor, as you well know.”

“Divine Justinia is dead! We must elect a replacement, and obey _her_ orders on the matter!” Roderick insisted.

“The Breach is stable, but it is still a threat,” Cassandra said evenly. “I will not ignore it while the Chantry debates Justinia’s replacement.”

Alena stepped forward, laid both hands flat on the table they stood around as she held Roderick’s gaze, fighting down every instinct to flee. “I did everything I could to close the Breach. It almost killed me.”

“Yet you live. A convenient result, insofar as you’re concerned,” he replied.

“Have a care, Chancellor,” the Seeker warned him. “The Breach is not the only threat we face.”

Leliana nodded. “Someone was behind the explosion at the Conclave. Someone Most Holy did not expect. Perhaps they died with the others—or have allies who yet live.”

“I am a suspect?” Roderick blustered.

“You and many others,” Leliana said cooly.

“But not the prisoner?”

“I heard the voices in the Temple. The Divine called to her for help,” Cassandra told him.

“So her survival… that thing on her hand. All a coincidence?

“Providence. The Maker sent her to us in our darkest hour.”

A cold fist punched Alena in the stomach. “You realise I’m a mage?”

“I have not forgotten,” the Seeker’s gaze was resolute. “No matter what you are, or what you believe, you are exactly what we needed when we needed it.”

“The Breach remains. And your mark is still our only hope of closing it,” Leliana said, offering a soft smile.

Roderick, sensing the meeting slipping through his fingers, slammed a fist on the table. “This is not for you to decide.”

In return, Cassandra strode to a nearby alcove, returned with a thick tome she place heavily on the table in front of the man. “Do you know what this is, Chancellor? A writ from the Divine, granting us the authority to act.” She took one step, then another, driving Roderick back. He was a tall man, taller than the Seeker, but shrank in the face of Cassandra’s conviction. “As of this moment, I declare the Inquisition reborn. We will close the Breach, we will find those responsible, and we will restore order, with or without your approval.” She punctuated this last with several stabs of her index finger in his direction, and when she had finished Roderick simply frowned, lips thin, and left the room. The door slammed in his wake.

Leliana looked at Alena, laying a hand on the book. “This is the Divine’s directive: rebuild the Inquisition of old. Find those who will stand against the chaos. We aren’t ready. We have no leader, no numbers, and now, no Chantry support.”

Cassandra joined her. “But we have no choice: we must act now. With you at our side.”

Alena stared at them both, the determination evident in their faces. She had read of the Inquisition: in the chaos that followed Andraste’s death it had spread her message by the sword, bringing order to a ravaged land at the cost of many lives. “You’re trying to start a holy war,” she said flatly.

“We are already at war,” Cassandra urged. “You are already involved. As to whether the war is holy… that depends on what we discover.”

Alena tore at the skin around her right middle finger with her thumbnail, expression blank. “If you’re truly trying to restore order…”

“That is the plan,” Leliana said.

“Help us fix this, before it’s too late,” Cassandra implored, holding her right hand out to mage.

Alena dropped her eyes, took a breath, and reached her own hand out to the Seeker. She raised her eyes, meeting Cassandra’s gaze and nodding as they shook hands.

***

Outside the Chantry the crowds had scattered somewhat, the soldiers returned to their afternoon sparring, a few priests dashing to and fro with their arms full of healing herbs. Alena veered left and away from the main path to her room, tracing the edge of the settlement. She longed to be alone but the thought of locking herself away inside was abhorrent. At the edge of the village, leaning against a small hut by the apothecary, she found Solas. The elf straightened as she approached, a sly grin on his lips.

“The Chosen of Andraste, a blessed hero sent to save us all.”

Alena flinched internally but kept her voice light. “Am I riding in on a shining steed?”

Solas smiled. “I would have suggested a griffon but sadly, they’re extinct. Joke as you will, posturing is necessary.” He paused, regarded her carefully. “I’ve journeyed deep into the Fade in ancient ruins and battlefields to see the dreams of lost civilisations. I’ve watched as hosts of spirits clash to reenact the bloody past in ancient wars both famous and forgotten. Every great war has its heroes. I’m just curious what kind you’ll be.”

Alena’s stomach turned over. “What do you mean, ruins and battlefields?”

If Solas noticed her attempt to change the subject, he didn’t show it. “Any building strong enough to withstand the rigours of time has a history. Every battlefield is steeped in death. Both attract spirits. They press against the Veil, weakening the barrier between our worlds. When I dream in such places, I go deep into the Fade. I can find memories no other living being has ever seen.”

“You fall asleep in the middle of ancient ruins? Isn’t that dangerous?”

“I _do_ set wards. And if you leave out food for the giant spiders, they are usually content to live and let live.”

Alena shuddered at the mention of spiders, but she was fascinated. “I’ve never heard of anyone going so far into the Fade. That’s extraordinary,” she marvelled.

“Thank you. It’s not a common field of study, for obvious reasons. Not so flashy as throwing fire or lightning. The thrill of finding remnants of a thousand-year-old dream? I would not trade it for anything.” Solas nodded slightly, a decision made. “I will stay then, at least until the Breach has been closed.”

“Was that in doubt?”

“I am an apostate mage surrounded by Chantry forces and unlike you, I do not have a divine mark protecting me. Cassandra has been accommodating, but you understand my caution.”

Alena did. The Chantry had taken a dim view of mages outside the Circles of Magi, and apostates had been hunted down and either killed or forcibly interned in a Circle by Templars. “Cassandra trusts you. And she knows how valuable your help is.”

“Thank you. I appreciate the thought. But for now let us hope we can gather the power to seal the breach.”

Alena inclined her head in assent as the elf returned to his contemplations. She had been dismissed, it seemed, and she followed the curve of Haven’s wall until she reached an open gate, lightly manned. Beyond, a road. She smiled as she looked at the empty path—it was not treacherously icy, as she had feared, and to the right her view of the Breach was obscured by a large wall. She set her back to Haven, and set off at a run.

***

Within minutes Alena had settled into an easy rhythm, her head held high, booted feet swift and soft in the snow. As it always did, the speed made her feel strong and free, and the cold air rushing against her face cleared the darkness from her mind. Full mages of the Ostwick Circle had been permitted to walk the tower’s grounds, and on the day after her Harrowing—the rite of passage by which apprentices became mages—she had been so overcome with the freedom of it she had taken off in a sprint around the tower walls. Since then she had run in circles around the tower every morning, ignoring the disapproving eyes of the templars and the amused looks of the other mages. Liriel, still an apprentice, would sit in a bay window in the library and clap as Alena passed… she pushed that memory away and concentrated on her breath: two footfalls on each inhale, two footfalls on each exhale. The wall to her right ended and the path split in two, one falling away toward the lake. She took it, grinning as she burst out from the tree-line into a smooth white expanse of snow sloping down towards the frozen lake.

***

Varric Tethras, rogue and storyteller, was warming himself by Haven’s central campfire when he saw the Herald—Alena, wasn’t it?—pass through the outer gate and step lightly up the stairs into Haven proper. She looked better than she had in days, although considering she had spent most of the time he’d known her in either in a coma or fighting for her life he supposed that was to be expected. Still, she looked far more approachable than he remembered her, even during her conscious moments.

He caught her eye and smiled, waving her over. She came, pushing tendrils of hair back from flushed, sweaty cheeks and breathing heavily. He raised an eyebrow and she laughed, rolling her eyes at herself. “Oh, I went running. In the snow. You know.”

Varric shrugged. “To each their own. So. Now that Cassandra’s out of earshot, are you holding up alright? I mean, you go from being the most wanted criminal in Thedas to joining the armies of the faithful. Most people would have spread that out over more than one day.”

Alena stiffened, face shuttering closed. “None of this shit should’ve happened.”

He regarded her, once more aloof. Still, he had caught a flash of anger: good. That might help keep her alive. “You don’t know the half of it. For days now we’ve been staring at the Breach watching demons and Maker knows what fall out of it. Bad for morale would be an understatement. I still can’t believe anyone was in there and lived.”

“It’s pure luck that I escaped,” she said, shaking her head slightly.

Varric chuckled without much humour. “Good luck or bad? You might want to consider running at the first opportunity. I’ve written enough tragedies to recognise where this is going. Heroes are everywhere, I’ve seen that. But the hole in the sky? That’s beyond heroes. We’re going to need a miracle.”

***

Cullen stood in the back room of the Chantry—the war room, rather, as they were calling it now—casting a critical eye over the large map of southern Thedas they had spread across the central table. Leliana, a stack of scouts’ reports in her hand, was adding new markers to the map to represent rifts they had recently learned about. Cullen shook his head as he tallied them up: over three score that they knew of so far, and this with the Inquisition’s youth and limited reach. The task ahead of them was monumental. At his left, Josephine’s muttered _“Fazedor mío_ ” suggested she was making the same calculations. Before he could offer a word of commiseration, the door opened and Cassandra entered with the Herald.

He had not seen her since his brief visit to the infirmary as she lay unconscious and bedraggled. Now, as she stood before him with bright, intelligent blue eyes taking in the room, the map, and those present, he realised she was beautiful.

The Seeker waited a moment as Leliana straightened, placing her reports carefully down on the table. “Lady Alena Trevelyan, may I present Commander Cullen, leader of the Inquisition’s forces.”

She turned those extraordinary eyes to him, and he spread his arms. “Such as they are. We lost many soldiers in the Valley and I fear many more before this is through.”

Cassandra continued, gesturing at the elegantly dressed, dark-haired woman at Cullen’s left. “This is Lady Josephine Montilyet, our ambassador and chief diplomat.”

Josephine smiled. “I’ve heard much. It’s a pleasure to meet you at last.”

“And of course you know Sister Leliana,” Cassandra concluded.

“My position here involves a degree of—” Leliana began.

“She is our spymaster.”

Leliana sighed. “Yes. Tactfully put, Cassandra.”

The Herald smiled at each of them in turn, inclining her head gracefully. “Pleased to meet you all.” She had the manners expected of one of her birth, but Cullen thought he detected a distinct unease behind the practiced smile and confident eyes. Hardly unexpected, he supposed.

“Lady Alena, Solas believes that your mark needs more power to close the Breach for good,” Cassandra said.

“Which means we must approach the rebel mages for help,” Leliana continued.

Cullen shook his head. “I still disagree. The templars could serve just as well.”

Cassandra gestured impatiently. “We need power, Commander. Enough magic poured into that mark—”

“Could destroy us all!” Cullen insisted. “Templars could suppress the Breach, weaken it, so—”

“Pure speculation,” Leliana interrupted, and Cullen shot her a sharp look.

“ _I_ was a templar. I know what they’re capable of,” he said. He glanced at Alena, caught a moment of suspicion, perhaps even fear, in her eyes before she looked away. When she met his eyes a moment later her expression was so neutral he wondered if he had imagined it.

Josephine stepped forward, silk skirts rustling and voice conciliatory. “Unfortunately, neither group will even speak to us yet. The Chantry has denounced the Inquisition — and you, specifically, Lady Trevelyan.”

The mage’s voice was resigned. “They still believe I’m guilty of the Divine’s death.”

“That is not the entirety of it any longer,” Josephine replied. “Some are calling you—a mage— the Herald of Andraste. That frightens the Chantry. The remaining clerics have declared it blasphemy, and we heretics for harbouring you.”

“Chancellor Roderick’s doing, no doubt,” Cassandra said.

Josephine ignored her, continuing in her lilting Antivan accent. “It limits our options. Approaching the mages or templars for help is currently out of the question.”

Alena was shaking her head slightly. “Just how am _I_ the Herald of Andraste?

“People saw what you did at the temple, how you stopped the Breach from growing. They have also heard about the woman seen in the Rift when we first found you. They believe that was Andraste,” Cassandra told her.

“Even if we tried to stop that view from spreading—” Leliana began.

“Which we have not,” interrupted Cassandra, shooting an indecipherable look at the spymaster. There had been considerable disagreement there, and Cullen’s jaw twitched at the prospect of renewed argument.

“The point is everyone is talking about you,” Leliana finished.

Alena’s face had taken on a studied stillness, looking at nobody in particular, as she processed the news. “It’s quite the title, isn’t it?” Cullen asked her. “How do you feel about that?”

“It’s… a little unsettling,” she turned her eyes on him, relaxing into a slight smile, seemingly grateful for the question. It occurred to Cullen that may have been the first time anybody had asked her how she felt about any of this. He chuckled. “I’m sure the Chantry will agree.”

“People are desperate for a sign of hope. For some, you’re that sign,” Leliana told Alena.

Josephine continued. “And to others, a symbol of everything that’s gone wrong.”

Alena’s mouth twisted. “They aren’t more concerned about the Breach? The real threat?”

“They do know it’s a threat. They just don’t think _we_ can stop it,” Cullen told her.

“The Chantry is telling everyone you’ll make it worse,” Josephine said.

Leliana took a step forward, index finger tracing a route on the map as she spoke. “There is something you can do. A Chantry cleric by the name of Mother Giselle has asked to speak to you. She is not far and knows those involved far better than I. Her assistance could be invaluable.”

“Why would someone from the Chantry help a declared heretic?” Alena asked.

“I understand she’s a reasonable sort. Perhaps she does not agree with her sisters. You will find Mother Giselle tending to the wounded in the Fereldan Hinterlands near Redcliffe.” Leliana’s index finger had found its destination, tapped a location a day’s ride from Haven. Alena stepped forward, studied the map, reached a questioning hand out to one of the rough-hewn wooden markers.

“And these?” she asked.

“Represent rifts we have heard of,” Cullen said, watching Alena’s eyes track the scores of markers spread across the table, her face expressionless. “You would do well to see to those you can while in the Hinterlands, and to look for other opportunities to expand the Inquisition’s influence.”

Josephine nodded. “We need agents to extend our reach beyond this valley, and you’re better suited than anyone to recruit them.”

Alena only nodded, eyes fixed on the map.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Team Spanish in the is-Antivan-Spanish-or-Italian wars, because I speak it and that makes life easier, lol. But it won't come up much.
> 
> Fazedor mío = my Maker.


	3. Between 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A visit to the Hinterlands.

****The small group gathered by the stables early on the day they left for the Hinterlands: Cassandra, Varric, Solas, and Alena. Lace Harding, abruptly promoted to head scout, had departed with her team two days earlier to establish camp, but the bulk of the Inquisition’s forces—those few templars inclined to peace who had been in Haven when the explosion occurred and the raw recruits that had been trickling in since then—would remain in Haven. They needed training, and the town needed to be defended. Cassandra would be the only Inquisition warrior in the Hinterlands, where early reports suggested breakaway factions of mages and templars were fighting their war with renewed brutality since the failure of the Conclave. The Seeker set her jaw at the prospect: the Inquisition’s scouts were deft dual-wielders or archers and would be strong against the apostate mages, but in their light armour they would struggle against the metal-clad templars. Worse, the templars were specifically trained to suppress and deflect magic, rendering Solas and Alena’s abilities less useful. Cassandra’s role would be to hold the line: to draw the attention—and the blows—of their foes while the rest of her team whittled away at their defences. _No matter_ , she thought, as she thrust a final healing potion into her belt. She would not fall.

The Inquisition had struggled to find horses over the last few days. Many of the attendees to the Conclave had arrived on foot; of the horses that had been present, ridden by higher-ranking templars, several had been lost in the first wave of demon attacks or sent off with scouts to more distant regions in search of information. Scout Harding and her team had set off on foot in order to leave four mounts for the Herald and her party: one pitch-black Orlesian Courser, surely once the treasured property of a very senior Templar; two Fereldan Forders, one grey and one bay; and a roan mare of indiscriminate breed. A stableboy finished buckling the Courser’s saddle and led it, plunging and skittering, toward Alena. She took a slight step back and glanced at Cassandra.

“I have never ridden before. Perhaps something a little… smaller?”

Cassandra nodded, surprised. Marcher nobles were usually excellent riders, and noble mages generally permitted enough time at home from the Circle to indulge in the many customs of their class. “Thomas, I will take the Courser. Give Lord Varric the grey. Solas, I assume you have not –”

“I am a proficient rider, Seeker,” the apostate replied, and Cassandra raised an eyebrow. Dalish elves sometimes rode their halla, but Solas had never been a member of a clan. Horses were the province of human nobility and the wealthier of the surface dwarves, not wandering elven apostates.

“Very well. Solas will take the bay. The Lady Herald will find the roan to be the sweetest, I believe.”

Another stableboy led the roan mare to Alena, who held an uncertain hand out to be smelled. Standing some fifteen hands high, the mare had a soft nose and kind eye. Alena smiled as the horse snuffled at her fingers. “What’s her name?” she asked the boy.

“Doesn’t have one, m’lady. This one the soldiers found in a field by a burned-out farm and brought ‘er back.”

Alena ran her hand down the mare’s neck. “Rosie, then, I think,” Alena murmured. She smiled slightly, visibly relaxing. Cassandra watched her clamber inexpertly into the saddle before mounting the Charger, noting as she did Solas’ easy seat and practiced hands. That apostate was full of secrets, but she had come to believe his intentions were benign—and his wisdom was a welcome addition to their cause. For a moment she allowed herself to imagine what might have happened if he had not appeared in the wake of the Conclave: the breach yet growing, eating the entire world. The Herald executed as a murderer, perhaps by Cassandra’s own hand. And then she nodded at her companions and turned her mount towards the Hinterlands. They had work to do.

 

***

A bolt of fire hit Alena square in the chest, knocking the wind out of her and sundering her connection with the rift. She reeled, fighting for breath, and dove out of the way as a second bolt flew towards her. She hit the ground awkwardly, rolled, and clambered none too gracefully to her feet. “ _Fucking_ wraiths!” she shouted, drawing on the mana surging through her to slam a barrier down over herself.

“You’re not wrong,” Varric called. He was firing Bianca methodically at one of the two wraiths, both of which had turned their attention to Cassandra. The Seeker was already engaging two rage demons and Alena cursed again. They were overmatched, and she had hoped to disrupt the rift, flooding the demons with surging rift energy and giving the party a much-needed advantage. _Fool_ , she told herself, _take out the wraiths first._ With their ranged attacks—strengthened now by the flames of the rage demons—they were a menace to all.

Alena tightened her grip on her staff, the mana surging through her body as the lightning she called down surged through the atmosphere. Her skin tingled, and she felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. She could feel Solas’ magic a few feet away, marvelled at the difference of it. Each of her companions in the Ostwick Circle had wielded their magic in subtly different ways, but Solas was unique. There was a breathtaking effortlessness in it. Alena’s own magic had always been primal and violent, and unlike her peers she was almost completely inept at wielding from any school or element except lightning. It unsettled her. Solas’s tranquility was reassuring.

Alena hissed victoriously as first one wraith, then the second, melted into nothingness. The rage demons, semi-amorphous masses of flame, were suffering under Solas’ cold attacks, but Cassandra was clearly flagging under their combined attentions. The warrior’s sword thrusts were as precise and powerful as ever, but her shield arm hung loose with an angry looking burn from shoulder to elbow.

“Hold firm, Seeker!” Alena called, hurling a barrier towards Cassandra and pivoting towards the rift with her left palm outspread. This time there was no interruption, and she poured energy into the rift until it exploded outwards, hurling the remaining demons to the ground, weakened and stunned. Within seconds Solas had frozen one solid, and Alena followed up with a barrage of energy, grinning as the demon exploded into fragments of ice. Cassandra spun her sword in a wide arc, pivoting slightly on her heel as she cut the remaining demon clean in two. As it disintegrated, the Seeker fell to her knees with a moan.

“Help her!” Alena called to Varric, turning once more to the rift. It took more concentration to close rifts than disrupt them, and while she had not lacked for opportunity to practice over the last several days it frequently took her some minutes to tease the Veil back into place. They were in no shape to face any more demons, though, so Alena closed her eyes and pushed the urgency and adrenalin away, calming her magic and seeking out that cool reserve she so often drew on. There. She opened her eyes, raised her hand to the rift, and began the work of knitting the Veil back across it.

When the work was done, Cassandra was back on her feet, wan but determined. Varric was fussing a little at her side, but the Seeker waved him away. “Nonsense. It is only a burn, Varric.”

“Your funeral, Seeker,” the dwarf replied, turning away and scanning the ground for any items the demons may have dropped. Alena suppressed a smile at his exaggerated disinterest and nodded at Cassandra.

“I believe we may have done enough for one day,” Solas said, leaning heavily on the staff he held with both hands. “Let us return to camp.”

***

The Inquisition camp at Dwarfson’s Pass was an orderly collection of tents, protected from the worst of the wind that whistled down the pass by a crumbled wall. The nearby ruins of a tower housed the requisition desk and alchemical stocks, while a large cooking pit sat at the camp’s heart. As Alena and her party arrived, one of the Inquisition’s scouts was busily stoking the fire, the camp’s cook whistling as he stirred a large pot of stew. Both sketched salutes in Alena’s direction, clenched fist gesturing towards their heart as they nodded, but they quickly returned to their work. The camp was quiet. Even before the removal of the far-flung rift they had closed that afternoon, this region of the Hinterlands had been largely pacified. Those scouts that had not been sent to reinforce their struggling comrades in areas closer to the front line had settled into an easier routine over the last day or two, harrying stray combatants and hunting ram.

Cassandra sat heavily down on a stool a little removed from the fire, drawing a dagger from her boot and hacking awkwardly at what remained of her burned, charred sleeve. “Allow me, Seeker.” Solas drew a stool closer to her and bent his bald head over her arm, taking the blade from her and carefully drawing cloth away from burned flesh. Cassandra grimaced and made a frustrated noise, tossing her head back as she relinquished control over the procedure.

“I’ll fetch the herbs,” Alena told Solas. She turned for the ruined tower as Varric tossed a couple of dead rabbits onto a nearby bench and begun to skin them, studiously ignoring the Seeker.

It took well over an hour to treat the various burns and wounds the party had suffered. Cassandra’s arm was by far the worst, although one may not have guessed from her stoic expression as Solas worked to separate flesh and fabric. Alena’s chest was badly blistered and her shoulder bruised; earlier in the day an arrow had just missed her, tearing into her right sleeve and leaving a jagged gash on her upper arm. Varric had suffered the fiery loss of a considerable amount of his chest hair—“That explains the smell,” Cassandra drawled—and had also acquired a number of bruises and slashing wounds earlier in the day. Only Solas had emerged relatively unscathed, nasty wolf bite on his calf notwithstanding. By the time the last poultice had been carefully applied, the birdsong had quieted and been replaced by the chatter of scouts. Those working the night shift had emerged from their tents, full of exaggerated complaint about hard ground and mystery stews. As they ate and headed out to their posts, they were replaced by those they were relieving or who had been running various errands around the region. Over the last fifteen days days Alena and her group had become a familiar sight in the camps they had established around the Hinterlands, and she had grown to appreciate this busy evening time. After the first few days the scouts had fallen back into the easy familiarity of the field, sparing her the endlessly staring eyes, rigid salutes, and curious whispers of Haven. Here, she could melt back into the shadows and simply listen—to the jokes tossed back and forth between the scouts, Solas’ stories of the Fade, Varric’s elaborate tales of misadventure in Kirkwall (and his endless baiting of Cassandra). Tonight, though, she found it more difficult to relax.

“You are troubled, Herald.” Cassandra’s perceptive brown eyes had settled on Alena, and it was not a question.

Alena forced a smile onto her lips. She shook her head lightly. “Not at all. Merely thinking about our next step.”

“Val Royeaux,” the Seeker replied.

“Yes. I am… wondering what we will find there.”

“As am I. But there is no other way forward. Leliana sends word that she has contacted the priests suggested by Mother Giselle. Word has also spread of your work here, closing rifts and protecting the refugees. It is time.”

Alena smiled wryly. “Is it ever _really_ time for a heretical apostate to stroll into the heart of the Chantry?”

Cassandra snorted. “I suppose not. And yet.”

“And yet,” Alena agreed. They would ride for Haven tomorrow, and from there on to Val Royeaux.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 15 hands = 5 feet (you measure to the top of the withers/shoulders). Alena is 5'10"-ish, so she and Rosie stand roughly shoulder to shoulder.
> 
>  
> 
> Deleted text on Rosie's name: "Rosie had been a thin black ratter in the Circle tower when Alena arrived as a child, and she had spent many hours in dark corners with the cat gathered into her arms. With luck this mount would be a similar comfort."


	4. Between 2

The return to Haven was a blessing and a curse. Alena missed the anonymity of the Hinterlands, but nearly wept with gratitude as she closed a door firmly between herself and the outside world. She curled into bed in the late afternoon of the day they arrived, knowing her presence would be expected in the war room within the hour, wondering what would happen if she simply bolted the door and pulled the blankets over her head. She would rather return to the flaming rage demons and grim-faced templars—how they hated her!—of the Hinterlands than face the respectful salutes of Haven’s town square, the expectant looks on the faces of those gathered around the war table, and—Maker help her—the disapproval and loathing that seethed around the Val Royeaux of her mind. Home of the Chantry. The Chantry, to whom she was a dangerous abberation. And perhaps she was, for what was this surging, sparking energy within her if not a curse? _Magic is to serve man_ , Andraste had taught, and yet Alena had called lightning down upon men, mage and templar alike. Her magic was violent and uncontrolled, and worse, she had _enjoyed_ it, had felt the joy bubbling up as she forgot everything she was and lost herself in the electrifying _now_ -ness of it. It was like running very fast down a steep hill, laughing as she came right to the edge of falling but keeping her footing against all odds. A curse. She could feel it now, the vibration of it, the sheer primal force of it. Thank the Maker, for she now had a door, and as she pulled forth that quicksilver mana and turned it upon herself, the tears flooded down her cheeks, sparkling and silver. She whimpered with the pain of it until she could bear no more and let it subside, leaving her as limp as a freshly killed hare. _This is what it feels like._

She lay for some time, the shadows lengthening, numb and empty. And then she rose, crossed to the mirror, splashed her face, stared into her own reddened eyes, and opened the door to Haven.

Outside, the normally bustling village had relaxed into the good cheer of those who have become accustomed to a poor situation and find themselves, in the darkness, temporarily unable to do anything to better it. Varric was holding court at the central campfire, telling outrageous stories about his adventures with Marian Hawke, the Champion of Kirkwall. The dwarven storyteller caught Alena’s eye as she passed, winking at her as he described an implausibly large wyvern. Alena tried to grin back, settled for arranging her features into a rudimentary smile. A number of soldiers sat at Varric’s fire, passing around what was not their first bottle of wine, if the ruddiness of their cheeks was any indication. Music and conversation poured from the tavern. Alena kept to the shadows, embarrassed of her tear-stained eyes and reminded once more of her childhood in the Circle, feeling drawn to the light and cheer like a moth just aware enough to realise it would flap out the final minutes of its life against that unattainable sun.

When she arrived in the war room, an argument was already in force.

***

“You can’t be serious!” The perpetual ache at the nape of Cullen’s neck had flared into sharp pain at Josephine’s approving report of Mother Giselle’s suggestion. To send the Herald, a _mage_ , to address the Chantry in Val Royeaux! It was an impossible risk.

“Mother Giselle isn’t wrong,” the ambassador continued, insistent but polite. “At the moment, the Chantry’s only strength is that they are united in opinion.”

“United in the opinion that the Herald is an heretical apostate,” Cullen retorted. There was a knock at the door, which Cassandra opened: Alena, pale and unsmiling. Cullen gestured at her. “And you would deliver her to them!” He felt his temper rising with his voice and groped for control. There was so little that felt within his control these days, but he would at least be master of himself.

Leliana stepped to the table, her face thoughtful. “The mothers I have contacted are amenable to meeting a representative, but it need not be the Herald. We can’t ignore the danger to her, Josephine.”

“Let’s ask her.” The Antivan raised an elegant eyebrow and turned to Alena, who was examining the map table. She ran a finger over the Hinterlands, tracing the annotations marking closed rifts and running her eye over the markers representing rebel mage and templar forces. Cullen felt she was a very long way away, and was about to politely clear his throat when she raised her eyes to his, then Josephine’s.

“What can they do? It’s just talk,” she said lightly. _Bravado_ , Cullen thought. Her face was calm and confident, but he fancied he could detect dread behind the eyes. And Maker, she looked to have been crying. It sent ice down his spine. He couldn’t send her into that.

“Don’t underestimate the power of their words,” Leliana told her quietly. “An angry mob can do you in just as quickly as a blade.” Alena’s lips tightened.

“This is—” Cullen began.

Cassandra lay a calming hand on his forearm. “I will go with her.” Her face was resolute, and Cullen let himself be reassured, at least a little.

“But why? This is nothing but a—” Leliana put in.

“We have no choice,” Alena interrupted. Whatever dread Cullen had seen in her had been smothered, and she turned a calm, reasonable gaze on each of them in turn. “We can’t reach anyone else for help with the breach, and we can’t ignore it. The Chantry’s reaction is a risk to be managed, no more. The mothers need to take the measure of the Herald if they’re to support us; a representative just won’t do.”

Leliana nodded, and Cullen felt his heart sink. The decision, apparently, had been made. “Advise the mothers that we will arrive in one week,” the Seeker told Leliana. “We we will see this through.”

The Herald met Cullen’s eyes again, and gave him a very slight smile. He thought of her walking into Val Royeaux, and longed for lyrium.

***

The frosty early morning winds of Haven chased away the last of Alena’s nightmares, which had been a confusing mess of memories of Liriel and Ser Ruth, and hallucinatory imaginings of the welcome she would receive in Val Royeaux. She was no stranger to the dreamworlds of the Fade, but these dreams had felt different: surveilled, perhaps. She had woken early, the scar over her eye aching as it had not done in years, her marked palm itching, and taken immediately to the hills outside Haven.

An hour and half later, her legs ached and lungs burned with the effort she had wrung from her tired body. The turmoil in her heart and mind had subsided, as it always did when she ran far and fast. The world narrowed down to this breath, that dip in the path, and it seemed manageable again. She had no time for painful memories or anxieties about what was to come when she was focused on putting one foot in front of the other.

Alena slowed to an easy jog as she at last turned back toward Haven. Tomorrow they would ride for Val Royeaux: she, Cassandra, Solas, and Varric. She longed for the road again, despite what might lie at the end of it. Since the Ostwick Circle had fallen nearly fifteen months ago she had grown used to constant travelling; the isolated life of scout and messenger for a small encampment of mages and Tranquil in the Vimmark Mountains had suited her. In the garb of a merchant and with her staff abandoned, she could almost forget what she was. Haven, and that sick green tear in the sky above it, was a constant reminder. Tomorrow, she could pretend again, for a little while.

***

Cullen scowled down at the pile of reports on the table in front of him. _Maker’s tears_ , he cursed inwardly, too few men and even fewer swords. “Does the quartermaster imagine we will equip our men with sticks and branches?” he inquired of the cloaked woman at his side.

“Calm down, Commander,” Leliana laughed gently. “We have just begun. My agents are already moving to secure sources of coin. All will be well. I wanted to leave you these reports in person but perhaps _this_ will be more welcome.” She produced a small bag and waved it temptingly below Cullen’s nose.

“Maker’s breath, how did you get coffee all the way up here?” Cullen grabbed at the bag, a smile playing at the corner of his lips. Coffee was an Antivan luxury, disdained by most Fereldans, but he had developed a taste for it in Kirkwall.

Leliana laughed again, relinquishing the prize as she turned to leave. “You see, Commander! Anything can be found. Even coffee. Even swords.”

Cullen laughed with her, shaking his head slightly at the contradiction of her. Such a dangerous woman, so comfortable within the shadows, so ruthless; and yet, at times, so sunny and optimistic. Sister Nightingale, spymaster for the spiritual leader of Thedas. _The_ former _spiritual leader,_ Cullen reminded himself, rubbing the back of his neck and scanning the hills beyond Haven as he considered the events of the day to come. The Herald would be riding for Val Royeaux the following day and he was determined to send a small detail of soldiers with her group. He would need to calculate just how many could be spared, and speak with the quartermaster about provisioning them. In the meantime, the sparring schedules would need… His eyes fixed on a lone figure approaching the town at a gentle trot. A woman, he thought, narrowing his eyes. She slowed to a walk as she approached, shaking her legs out a little and pushing tendrils of hair out of her face. The Herald, although he had never seen her looking so relaxed. Her cheeks were flushed and she was smiling as she walked, head slightly turned towards the frozen lake. For a moment he let himself watch her, running his eyes down the thick braid that hung over one shoulder, admiring the sway of her hip… and then he realised she was approaching from outside the camp, alone, unarmed, without even the light armor of a battlemage. His jaw tightened.

Alena had almost reached the desk set out by his tent, and Cullen closed the remaining distance between them before he had time to consider. “What in Andraste’s name are you thinking?” he railed, regretting it immediately as a mask of cool confidence slid across her features. Until this morning, he had only rarely seen her without it: the Herald had been a picture of poise, politeness, and cold reserve since she had tumbled out of the Fade.

“Commander?” she inquired.

“You’ve been out Maker knows where, alone and unarmed. Herald, you are aware that we’re at war?” Cullen seemed unable to turn the bluster down. _By Andraste, man, calm yourself._

“I had noticed some conflict, yes,” she said tightly. “And I’m sure you realise my magic is not dependent on a stick of metal to be dangerous.”

Cullen bit down a furious retort and closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. His head pounded, and for a moment the constant clanging of swords grated so painfully on his frayed nerves he wanted to scream. _Maker take this entire forsaken camp_. When he opened his eyes again Alena looked mildly contrite. “I apologise, Commander. You are right that I’m less effective without my staff.”

Cullen said nothing, waiting, but Alena seemed disinclined to volunteer further information. “Your safety is paramount, Herald. Without you our cause is lost. You simply cannot wander around the mountains alone.”

Her expression was cool again, all traces of contrition banished. Alena was a tall woman and barely needed to tip her head back to meet the Commander’s gaze. Cullen almost wished he could avoid hers. After a moment or two she relented, dropping her eyes and smiling slightly, a trace of the warmth he had seen when she thought herself unobserved creeping back. “I run, Commander,” she looked back up at him and he was startled by the thought that she was embarrassed. “I need to. To get away from all this,” she jerked her chin in the direction of the Breach.

Cullen sighed. The Herald had taken to her unasked-for responsibility without a single complaint, and her initial foray into the Hinterlands had been even more successful than they had hoped. She had asked for nothing and given much. _And will give much more before this is over_ , Cullen thought grimly. “Perhaps I could send an escort with you?” he ventured.

Alena frowned at him, before relenting in the face of his open concern. “No escorts. But I will run with my staff. And I never go beyond the last watchtower.”

The commander threw up his hands. “Very well. Thank you, my Lady Herald.” As he turned to leave she spoke again.

“I do appreciate the concern, Commander. I should have advised you of my routine.” Cullen nodded once more, taken aback by her sudden gentleness, and returned to the mess of papers on his table. He fanned the reports out without really seeing them, worrying at that spot on his neck with a gloved hand, mentally probing a long-forgotten feeling in the pit of his stomach. A clenching. A… wanting.

 _Sweet Andraste, why now? Why her?_ Cullen had been eighteen years old when the Ferelden Circle fell to abominations. The two days of torture he had withstood at their hands and the deaths of his comrades had filled him so completely with rage and despair that for nearly a decade he had thought of little else, had pursued his duty with a cold singularity of purpose that was, in retrospect, terrifying. Having somehow stood firm against his Knight-Commander’s proposed extermination of the Kirkwall Circle, Cullen stood blinking at the precipice of a new life: battle-hardened, battle-scarred, and looking for redemption. Love, he felt, was for the young and unbroken. That part of his life was long since past.

And then Alena had walked into the war room on that grey afternoon, chin held high, blue eyes calm and confident. The Herald. A mage. _Yes, a mage,_ he reminded himself, remembering the sharp look of suspicion she had shot him when she learned of his previous life as a templar. _Bury this, soldier._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> May the pining begin!


End file.
